Washington bristled at the blunt words.
“Sir,” Greene quickly replied, “I do not mean played out forever. It is still an army loyal to you. But as an offensive force?”
“They did it last year at Trenton.”
“Sir, at least they had half a meal in their stomachs, and a march of but nine miles. It is more than twenty to Darby. This storm is still rising. Most of the men have not eaten even a single morsel in more than two days. If you try a forced night march, you will lose the entire army before dawn.”
“Lose them? What do you mean lose them?”
Greene hesitated but, ever the blunt-spoken Quaker turned warrior, he would not shy away now.
“Half will collapse and freeze to death. The other half will desert and head for home, looting as they go, and the Revolution will be lost.”
Washington could not reply.
“That is what Howe is all but begging you to do by this raid. We know he has spies among us. They know our situation as well as we do. He is goading us and we must not rise to the taunt.”
The general shifted his gaze to Anthony Wayne. If ever there was an officer in this army thirsting for vengeance it was he. Two months ago, at Paoli, a surprise attack at night had caught him totally unprepared. The attackers were a column of light infantry led by General Grey. Rumors had exploded after the battle that it had in fact been a massacre, though a court of inquiry had found no evidence of actual butchering of prisoners. The terrible injuries of the dead and wounded had been caused when Grey ordered his attacking column to remove the flints from their muskets and go in with bayonet alone in order to avoid the accidental discharge of a weapon and thus give warning to their intended victims.
It had been a swift action at bayonet point, barely a shot fired in return as Wayne’s men panicked and fled, many of them found stabbed in the back.
Grey had even sent a note through the lines denying the reports of the American newspapers of savage butchering of fallen wounded pleading for their lives, pointing out that over a hundred wounded had been taken in and were now being well treated in Philadelphia, which was more than could be said for their comrades who had fled and were now starving in the countryside.
It had been such a nightmare for Wayne that he had demanded a formal court-martial and there had faced down the whisper campaign that he had been drunk and derelict that night.
“I must concur with the judgment of General Greene,” he finally replied. “This army is no longer fit to move another mile in attack or retreat. And if we do not find food by tomorrow morning, by tomorrow night we will have no army at all.”
Washington snatched the dispatch back from Tench and gazed at it with anger. It was a reproach; yes, actually a deliberate taunt by Howe, who knew as well as he did just how desperate he truly was. It was defiance, a parading of British strength before a starving rabble in arms.
Washington turned away from the two, went back to the table, pulled the camp stool back up, and sat down with a sigh. No one spoke.
How could he tell them now of the even grander plan he had already mapped out and tucked in the locked box of secret papers that he would not share even with Tench?
Starting three days ago, just before arriving here, he had sat up late and mapped out a bold plan modeled after Trenton. More than anyone, he knew that the new country needed another such victory as Trenton if this army was to be held together by the first of the following year. Many of the reports he had requested from Major Clark had been for the purpose of developing this plan. Which men were to be quartered where, would officers live separately from their troops and if so where, how many ships were to be tied off along the wharves and what cargo would they carry.
As at Trenton, the new attack would be launched on Christmas night. Safe and secure in Philadelphia, he knew without doubt that almost every enemy officer would be up late at dances, or in the taverns. The reports from Major Clark and his spies indicated plans were already being openly discussed and anticipated in the city for a night of revelry. Though the Quakers and Presbyterians of the city did not hold much with celebrating Christmas, the English gentry and German officers did, and they were feeling safe in what had been the former capital of the rebels. It would be a time to celebrate.
His plan was for the army to break camp late in the afternoon. Flying columns of the few mounted men left with his command, reinforced by Morgan’s riflemen, would precede the advance, securing every Tory household ahead of the line of march. By the time the army reached the upper fords of the Schuylkill, night would have fallen and the parties within the city would be in full fling.
His men were to ford the river at three different points and then advance at the double. Once into the city it would surely be chaotic, but the chaos would favor his side with the drunken British officers and enlisted men and commanders separated from their units.
Specially designated units of raiders were to move along the wharves, torching every ship moored at the docks. A conflagration would be started that would sweep the length of the waterfront and adjoining warehouses, consuming millions of rations and hundreds of thousands of pounds’ worth of military supplies.
Once into the city, he would establish headquarters where Congress had once convened. If all went perfectly to plan, by dawn he would there accept the surrender of General Howe. He was pragmatic enough to know, however, that no action ever went according to plan once combat was joined. If he sensed he could not hold the city, he would order a withdrawal…and grim though it must be, the city would be set to the torch as they pulled out.
A grim and terrible act, but in so doing it would force the British to withdraw as best they could after the loss of so much shipping. Their only other escape route would be to march back across Jersey to New York, and in that event he would harass and attack them every inch of the way. It would send a message straight to the king and to all of Europe as well that this Revolution was far from over. That we are willing, if need be, to destroy even our own capital as an act of final defiance, to then draw back and be ready to pounce yet again and again until the last of our foes left our shores forever.
A city could be rebuilt. Freedom? Freedom, as Thomas Paine had written, was so celestial an object that it could never be purchased cheaply. The destruction of Philadelphia would stand as a statement to the world of just how determined Americans were to see this through to final victory.
That had been his plan for this Christmas night. And now two of his most trusted generals were telling him that even a response to a raid by a single brigade, without artillery and hindered by the need to guard hundreds of wagons, could not be mounted.
“Surely something,” he finally said, looking back at Greene and Wayne.
The two looked one to the other and finally Wayne spoke up.
“May I suggest this, sir? A call for volunteers. Fifty men from each brigade of the army. That will be close on to a thousand men. No artillery. If not enough volunteer, let officers chose the men they think best and most fit for the task. Those men, joining in with Morgan’s riflemen, would be a sufficient strike force to hit a strung-out column on the road and send them reeling.”
“But not enough to capture the supplies they have taken intact and bring them back,” Tench interjected.
Wayne sighed and shook his head.
“Cattle, sheep, and swine on foot, yes, we might be able to drive them here. But the rest? We’ll then be the hunted with that many wagons, especially if the weather turns and the roads thaw into mud. Their light infantry will then have us by the throat.
“At best we can spoil their fun and take some of the food for ourselves.”
“And Howe?” Washington asked.
“He’ll be too well guarded and they will make sure he gets out. He is simply using himself as bait, sir, to try and lure our entire army out. That would be the most intemperate of moves this day. I can mount a flying column to be ready at dawn, sir, but I beg you, leave the rest of the army here. Find fo
od for these men, find tools for them to build huts so they can survive through this winter.
“General, this army is here, at Valley Forge, for the winter. To ask anything more of them will be the death of most of them and probably the death of our independence.”
Washington took it in, thoughts turning back to his elaborate plan for the seizing of Philadelphia on Christmas night…and at that moment, cold ice water dripping down through the burst seams of his tent, he finally realized the reality he must face.
There would be no attack this Christmas night…though a gesture would be made by Wayne tomorrow. The Continental Army was finished as an offensive force for this winter. There would be no second Trenton, and at that moment he wondered: If, before the winter was out, Howe decided to bestir himself, could he even mount a defense?
Valley Forge must be a place of survival to keep some nucleus of his army intact and, from that nucleus, to rebuild with hopes for a spring to come, if they should live that long.
“Do as you suggested, General Wayne,” he whispered. “Do as you suggested. Report to me before you leave at dawn.”
Wayne saluted, Greene as well, and the two left. Through the thin canvas wall of the tent he could hear their whispers in spite of the rising storm, which now was buffeting the tent, Greene thanking Wayne for convincing the general not to commit double suicide, for himself and for the American cause.
Tench stood silent as if awaiting orders.
“Some time alone, Tench,” he said softly.
His aide nodded and withdrew.
Alone, he stared around at his command tent, water pouring in now from half a dozen leaks, men outside cursing and then laboring as one of the tent lines uprooted, fighting to drive it back in place into the frozen ground.
He was hungry, but then again he knew his hunger was not that which the common infantry of the line were suffering out in the open in this storm. At least there had been a bit of bacon and coffee at dawn, and Billy Lee would surely find something later and most likely lie if he pressed too closely as to where it came from.
He had boots, though his feet were cold and wet, and a uniform that decorum demanded be well fitted and relatively clean. The general in command must set some sort of example. No one would dare to steal his horse tonight to butcher as food.
And only twenty miles away, his foes paraded through the rich countryside, looting as they went, stocking up their larders for the Christmas feasting to come.
In York, the congressmen he must, as duty demanded, answer to, sent him letters, chastising letters about drunken soldiers stealing a pig, demanding he send his army hither and yon on mad, insane orders, and then openly accuse him that the debacle they had created here at Valley Forge was now his fault. Soon he would, without doubt, face their inquiries, with Gates, as head of the Board of War, standing behind them, ready to seize command.
There was nothing he could possibly do now at this moment other than what his inner spirit told him to do.
Lowering his head, he clasped his hands tight and silently began to pray.
Chapter Three
Valley Forge
December 22, 1777
Early Morning
“God, this is cold,” Sergeant Harris exclaimed, as the frigid wind cut into his face, causing him to turn aside and put his back to the icy blast.
“Come on, Peter,” Harris gasped to the private he had chosen as company for this task. Peter, with a hopeful ulterior motive in mind, had fallen behind.
The boy caught up.
Peter Wellsley was barefoot, his swollen feet fortunately still red, not turning black, a sure guarantee of a lifetime as a cripple. Typical of the lad, he was silent. Oftentimes, days would go by when he barely said a word. He was a good soldier but had not made a single friend in the rest of the unit. It was without doubt because he was not a Virginian, as were the rest of the company, but from New Jersey.
“I think it’s just around the bend here,” Harris announced, turning back into the wind and freezing rain, pushing on. The boy was supposed to look like some sort of official escort, but that was a farce. True, they were both wearing the famed buff and blue uniforms of the Third Virginia, the guard company for the commander of the Continental Army of America, or at least what was left of those uniforms. Shoes and boots had worn out long ago. The buff trousers were threadbare, thighs, knees, and backsides black from countless days of service in the field. The joke now was that no one dared to wash his uniform, since it was only the ground-in dirt and muck that was holding it together. At least with this company material was provided to patch up the tears, rents, and burst seams—it certainly would not do for a headquarters unit to have men standing on parade with knees, elbows, and in more than a few cases bare backsides sticking out. Jackets were nearly black and brown as well. The few buttons still in place, at least, were polished with a paste mixture of charcoal from the morning’s fire pit. The white cross-hatchings for their cartridge box slings and haversacks were all but invisible. On occasion, attempts had been made to whiten them, but that was a futile effort of late, for no whitening paste was available.
Two ragged scarecrows off on a quest to find quarters for their general, Harris thought with a wry smile as they turned the corner of the road. Before them was a neat, small stone farmhouse. It was of two stories, the farm, yard, and barn were well tended, and smoke was curling from the chimneys that flanked the east and west sides of the house.
“Now look sharp you and remember what the general said—be respectful.”
“And what if they say no?” Peter asked.
“Leave that to me,” Harris muttered as he approached the door. Peter stopped several feet behind him, grounding his musket and standing at ease so as to not look threatening.
Harris knocked on the door and but a few seconds later it cracked open, the resident within having obviously seen their approach.
“What do you want?”
The door was opened only a few inches. A tall, bony woman of middle age nervously peeked out from the opening.
“Ma’am, by request of his Excellency General George Washington, may I speak to a Mr. Potts?”
“If you’re looking for food there’s none here. The British took most of it, and then some scoundrel with your army took the rest and left me with a worthless piece of paper.”
“Ma’am, I am not here seeking food,” Harris replied patiently. “May I come in and talk with you?”
She glared at him defiantly and started to close the door without replying. He leaned against it, trying not to appear as if he was forcing his way in, but not relenting, either.
“Ma’am, as an act of Christian charity, we are two soldiers out here in the cold. May we please come in and talk with you for a moment?”
She didn’t reply, but did not open the door, either.
“You have my solemn oath as a God-fearing man that I am here with an official request from General Washington. Please just hear us out, and if you then wish, we will be on our way.”
“Tell me what you want.”
He sighed, the cold wind whipping around him and his companion.
“The general wishes to rent your house as a headquarters.”
“Go on and tell another.” He couldn’t help but smile at her response even as she refused entry.
“May I be struck down if it is a lie,” he replied, trying to smile in reply, his teeth near to chattering with the cold. “Please may we come in, or frankly I think I will be struck down, from this cold.”
She finally conceded, and opened the door to let him in. She was tall, nearly six feet, angular, with more the build of a gangly boy than a middle-aged woman. She had a long, pinched face with a hawklike nose, graying hair tucked into a mobcap, and a heavy shawl wrapped around her shoulders. Harris motioned for Peter to follow, as with her hand on the door she seemed ready to close it on him.
“Come now, ma’am, would you leave a boy out in the cold?”
She hesitated, then opene
d it back up.
“In and be quick about it, and wipe your feet first.” She shooed them in as if they were wayward boys back from a romp and would now face punishment.
As they wiped their bare or canvas wrapped feet, she looked down at them, shook her head, and sighed. Peter’s feet were bare and Harris’s wrapped in canvas.
She slammed the door shut once they were inside, and without comment went into the kitchen off to the left, the two following.
The warmth of the room, the smell of something cooking in a kettle over the open fire, struck Harris like a wall. His head swam and for a few seconds he feared he would faint.
The room was saturated with warmth. Strange, almost confining, to feel four walls around him and a solid roof. And the smells! Bread was baking. A stew that smelled like potato, perhaps, with some pork mixed in, simmered over the fire. His stomach convulsively constricted. He looked back at Peter, who was actually leaning against the doorway into the kitchen for support, gazing wide-eyed, as if he had been raised to the gates of a paradise thought to be lost forever.
She turned in front of the fireplace with arms folded, fixing the two with a cold, sarcastic gaze.
“Well, on with it, state your business, and then be off with you. I don’t have time to waste on a lot of foolishness.”
Harris had to swallow hard. Strangely, he actually felt nauseated from the smell of food. As she gazed at them, she wrinkled her nose.
“Merciful God, the two of you stink like a manure pit in August. Now out with it and be on your way, and if it’s food you’re begging for…”
She sighed, looking past Harris to young Peter Wellsley.
“How old are you, boy?”
“Eighteen, ma’am,” he whispered.
“Eighteen,” and she shook her head, sighing. “Oh, damn it. Sit down. One bowl apiece and not a drop more, then out of here. Got barely enough for myself and now you starving boys are swarming all over the countryside. Whoever thought of this war should be shot.”
Valley Forge: George Washington and the Crucible of Victory Page 8
